


Eyes Over Here, Mister

by amillionsmiles



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bonding, M/M, lance is in denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 21:36:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7239370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite what his track record might look like, Lance understands girls, okay? Keith has Bad Boy written all over him—the dude sleeps with a knife, for Pete’s sake, and seems partial to black T-shirts when he isn’t in the Garrison uniform. Throw in a guardedness that could pass off as “mysterious” and a pair of dark eyes that could turn soulful in the right lighting and also if you could, like, get the guy to even look at you in the first place—</p><p>“Do you think I could work a mullet?” Lance asks Hunk.</p><p>“Absolutely not.”</p><p>OR: four times Keith completely ignored Lance, and one time he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes Over Here, Mister

**-1-**

Lance is _not_ a sore loser.

So, yes, maybe he used to cry when his older sister always got the biggest water gun whenever they went to the pool. And yeah, he _might_ have locked himself in a room once after a particularly heated game of Monopoly, but Granny was rubbing her winnings in his face unnecessarily, and also he was, like, twelve, so it doesn’t even count.

When he gets into the Garrison by some stroke of luck, he only gloats for about—five days? And he asks his mom to bake a cake. But she was already making one anyways, because Lance had been dreaming about the Garrison for so long, and the whole family had been rooting for him.

All of this is just to say that, contrary to what his actions might have you think, the very first time Lance ever saw Keith fly he was not consumed by

     a) burning jealousy

         or  
  
     b) utter rage

No, in fact, the first time Lance sees Keith fly, all he can think about is how lucky he is to be at the Garrison, with the crisp orange and white uniforms and the (mostly) tolerable food and the _utterly_ sweet tech. 

Keith gets selected to go in the capsule for that day, so the rest of them stand shoulder to shoulder, watching his mission play out on screen. One wall of the room has a projection of how the landscape looks from Keith’s point of view: jagged outcroppings of rock, a formation in the distance shaped like a donut. The other screen shows the interior of the capsule: Keith, mouth a thin line, a slight furrow between his eyebrows.

“Watch carefully, everyone,” the instructor says. “We’ll be assessing his performance when he comes out.”

It’s not like there’s a lot to assess. The fact of the matter is, Keith can _fly._ And as the simulation progresses, Lance watches the tension in Keith’s body dissipate. After he executes a particularly fancy loop-de-loop (there’s a more technical term for it, Lance knows, but whatever), the corner of Keith’s mouth curls into what could loosely be called a smile. (Well, maybe it’s more of a smirk.)

Training ends. Everyone says his or her piece. Keith stands at the front of the classroom, nonresponsive, his eyes already on some other place. When the assessment is finally over and they head to the doors, Lance darts into Keith’s path.

“Hey, that was some pretty awesome stuff that you did in there! Like the barrel roll? Good stuff. One of _my_ favorite maneuvers—I’m on the pilot track too, you know. Maybe we could hang out some time, swap notes…” He moves to nudge the other boy with his elbow, a conspiratorial look on his face. 

(Because call Lance a “goofball” or “uninspired” or whatever, but whenever he wants something, he wants it wholeheartedly, and _certified pilot_ is the current dream.)

But Keith shoulders past him like he isn’t even there, leaving Lance gaping in outrage.

“Did he just—did he just _ignore_ me?”

And _that’s_ when things start to get personal.  


**-2-**  

Ridiculous. _Ridiculous._

“How is it,” Lance asks, shoveling lasagna into his mouth, “that a guy can know a grand total of five words and _still_ have the ladies all over him?” 

Hunk looks over at the object of Lance’s attention.

“I’m pretty sure he knows more than five words,” Hunk counters. “He’s reading.”

Which is exactly what Lance is so incensed about. Because there is a perfectly acceptable girl at Keith’s elbow, twirling her hair, and Lance doesn’t even have to be a genius to know what the conversation probably sounds like:       

 **Girl:** _Hey, Keith, what are you reading?_

 **Keith:** _*noncommittal grunt* *pointedly flips page*_

Sure enough, said girl exchanges a look with her friends, gives a self-deprecating shrug, and scoots closer, propping her chin up on one elbow.

_SERIOUSLY, dude, grow a pair of eyes!_

And despite what his track record might look like, Lance _understands_ girls, okay? Keith has Bad Boy written all over him—the dude sleeps with a _knife,_ for Pete’s sake, and seems partial to black T-shirts when he isn’t in the Garrison uniform. Throw in a guardedness that could pass off as _“mysterious”_ and a pair of dark eyes that could turn soulful in the right lighting and also if you could, like, get the guy to even look at you in the first place—

“Do you think I could work a mullet?” Lance asks Hunk.

“Absolutely not.”  
 

**-3-**

When Lance hears about his upward shift in the rankings, his first question is: “What happened to Keith?”

“Disciplinary action,” the instructor answers gruffly. 

“So, like, is he on probation for a few weeks? Months? What kind of disciplinary action are we talking, here? What did he _do?”_

“Keith is gone, cadet,” says the instructor. “As in _formally asked to leave._ ”

Part of Lance knows what this opportunity means for him. Cargo pilot is…piloting, but it isn’t fighter class. So by no means is he going to throw away this shot.

But a smaller, quieter part of him wonders what kind of lonely you have to be to get booted out of the Garrison. What had Keith been thinking? Had he had anyone to vouch for him?

And if on Monday, his eyes linger on Keith’s empty seat for a little too long, it’s not because he _misses_ the dude, or whatever. He’d barely known him.

He just wonders if maybe, in another life, they could’ve been friends. 

**-4-**

Despite the fact that Pidge thinks Lance’s brain is capable of processing only _food-spaceships-girls_ (and not necessarily always in that order), Lance _notices_ things.

And there’s _definitely_ a story behind Keith and Shiro. The two of them are sitting next to each other on the couch opposite him, sifting through battle strategies or whatnot, while Lance tries to figure out if they have history or History (there is a subtle but distinct difference) and whether or not said history can be used as ammunition against Keith.

And then Shiro shifts, slightly, the side of his arm pressing against Keith’s, and Keith looks up. 

Lance has never understood the idea of _relaxing your gaze_ on someone. Lance sees a pretty lady and gets fired up—one of the girls back at Garrison told him, once, that he had “electric eyes.” Keith, though—every line on his face softens, and Lance gets a weird, funny feeling in his chest, almost a tightness, like he should leave the room but at the same time can’t find it in himself to look away.

 _Oh,_ Lance thinks. _Oh._

**-5-**

The juice pouch hits him in the side of the face.

“What the _quiznak_ , dude!” yelps Lance, before scrambling for the pouch and stabbing a straw through it (because hey, free juice). Keith plops down in front of him, holding a juice pouch of his own, and looks around the room.

Lance follows his gaze. It’s kind of impressive, really, the castle’s healing capacity. They managed to get the scorch marks out from the metal floors, and the door has been repaired. A new crystal hangs in place overhead, pulsing with a faint blue light.

“You’re in here again,” the red paladin comments.

Lance sizes him up, trying to guess his angle. “Well, yeah. It’s our control center, after all.”

Keith scowls. “I _know_ that. I just thought maybe you’d want a break from it, after nearly being _blown up._ ”

“But I _wasn’t_ , and I ended up saving _your_ sorry ass.”

“Whatever you have to say to make yourself feel better,” Keith mutters, turning his juice pouch over in his hands.

Lance watches Keith fiddle awkwardly with it for all of five seconds before he heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Okay, whatever it is, spit it out.”

“Why’d you leave the party?” Keith blurts, and Lance nearly jumps out of his skin from the intensity of it; he can tell that this is a question that has been festering in Keith’s mind for a while.

(Truth be told, he’s pleased. There’s a strange sense of victory at having made himself bothersome enough to stay on Keith’s mind for longer than five seconds.)

“What’s it to you? I bet you missed me, didn’t you. That’s me, Lance, always the life of the party—”

 _“Lance.”_  

“Okay, fine,” says Lance, sobering up. “The truth is, I got…” He finds a spot over Keith’s shoulder to focus on, so he won’t be tempted to monitor the other boy’s reaction. “I got homesick.”

A long pause, and then: “Oh.”

“Seriously, dude?” Lance says. “I bare my soul to you, and that’s all you can say?” 

“I was _going_ ,” Keith says through gritted teeth, “to continue by saying, _I get it._ ”

“Pfft.” Lance snorts. “Right. I saw that shack of yours. Your idea of ‘home’ needs an upgrade, that couch was _seriously_ sad—”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Keith cuts in, eyes flashing.

“No, I—I do,” corrects Lance, all traces of teasing slipping from his voice. “When we did the mind-meld thingy, I…I saw how much it means to you.” 

Keith relaxes, slightly. “And I saw your family.”

Lance smiles. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“I miss them a lot, you know,” Lance finally admits, voice small. “More than Earth, really, it’s—it’s them.”

Keith scoots closer. They both have their backs against the central platform and neither looks at the other. Lance’s head is tilted backward and he stares up at the ceiling; Keith has his arm propped up on his knee and watches the door.

“I don’t…get attached, to a lot of things,” starts Keith. “Places or…people, but—”

“—No, wait, don’t tell me, I know where this is going,” Lance grins. “You’re going to say that while I was out cold, you came to an earthshattering revelation, which is that you actually can’t live without me. I gotta say, pal, your affections are much appreciated, although Allura is still number one, but you’ve moved up quite a ways from being my least favorite person.” 

“Actually, I was going to say that _now_ , if you were on fire, I’d at least consider dumping my glass of water on you, instead of drinking it immediately.”

“Wow,” says Lance. “That is really, really cold.”

“That’s what you get for rejecting our bonding moment,” counters Keith, rolling to his feet. He offers a hand, a hint of mirth in his eyes.

“Um, no,” says Lance, turning his nose up. “You can’t just say something like that to me and then offer up your hand all buddy-buddy. For all I know, I’m going to reach up and then you’re just going to pull back, and I’m going to land on my _ass,_ and—”

“Come on, Lance,” sighs Keith, exasperated. “Just take my hand.”

So Lance does.


End file.
